Fingerpainting
by turkmama
Summary: Illness leads to lethargy, but only for the living.


After a week, I was finally able to breathe again. Alucard had been ever so helpful, pointing out that if I would just give up the cigars, I could avoid most all of the bronchitis I dealt with year-round. I told him to go fuck himself and he asked if I wanted to watch, the creep.

It had been an interesting show but I didn't enjoy it as much as I could have. Lungs full of cobwebs and glue suck the joy right out of life.

But I was mending now and I was restless. The doctor had been in that afternoon and had ordered another few days of rest which meant that I was promptly on the treadmill when he cleared the front door. It was the only thing that loosened the congestion and made coughing productive. I spent an hour running until I was seeing stars, then stopping and coughing up blood-stained mucus. A steamy shower had more of it exiting with force.

And it was in this foul state that Alucard found me just after sunset. "Frail and graceless as usual," came his assessment of my state of health. Given that I was bent double hacking up what I assumed were bits of my actual lungs I tended to agree with his opinion.

Once I had regained my breath, I shot him a look of disgust and noticed that he had a shopping bag with him. Shop

ping bags and Alucard were never good. It meant that he'd actually been somewhere with people and most likely alone. I wondered if I would get a bill for someone's psychiatric treatment.

"I assume you want me to ask what is in the bag," I wheezed. I reached for my cigar case and put one to my lips. He obliged me with a light and I coughed again.

"Distractions. I overheard one of the maids talking about something one of her spawn had done somewhere. The name of the task was fascinating, but I think the reality is going to be less so." He up-ended the bag on the table and several brightly colored plastic bins rolled out.

I picked one up and read the label, '100% non-toxic Fingerpaint.'

"What in God's name is this?" I had watched this monster do some very questionable things before – the most recent show of literally fucking himself being one of the more tame but athletic feats. But this bordered on insanity.

He just shrugged one shoulder. "I was disappointed too. I should have realized that if it was a child's activity there would be no real sport in it." He sprawled himself out on the sofa next to me and attempted to look dejected.

It was more comical but hazarding a laugh proved painful and I spent several minutes letting my lungs be productive into yet another tissue before I was able to say, "No, I'm afraid there is no sport that would be to your liking in finger painting."

He grinned and reached for the blue. "Still, it could pass the time."

And so it did. Gloves stripped from his hands, he set to work with distractingly deft fingers creating macabre masterpieces the likes of which would set a preschool on fire if they had the knowledge of them. I was not as talented, keeping to swoops of color and the occasional attempt at a rose. When we ran out of paper from the printer, he stripped the top sheet from my bed and hung it from the picture rail.

I did not join his aerial performance art after that, preferring to rest my weary body on the sofa and let him content himself with his new found hobby. I dozed off at some point and woke several hours later in a darkened room with my head in Alucard's lap and his paint-stained fingers tangled in my hair.  
I rolled over to look up at his face and inquired, "Had your fun, then?"

"Oh, yes. I am anxious to hear your critique of my work." His smirk did not bode well for whatever I was about to see, but I sat up anyway.  
The change in position brought on another fit of coughing, this time not as severe. I looked at the wall where he had done his masterpiece of finger painting.

I stared long and hard at my own image, naked as a newborn babe and arched like a taut bowstring with a look of intense, unbound pleasure on my face. The lines were slightly blurred due to the paint having bled on the fabric, but overall the detail was impressive.

"A bit Rubenesque, don't you think? And the skin tone is off – it's too pink," I criticized.

He glanced over his shoulder and frowned, "I will grant you the comparison to Ruben's, but the shade of your skin is exact, given the moment being depicted." He chuckled, "I will be happy to prove it to you if you will consent to rearranging a few mirrors."

I coughed again. "Maybe another night." I surveyed his tapestry and frowned. Falling backwards on to his lap again I added another criticism, "There's something missing."

He looked entertained. "And what might that be, Countess?" With my hair caught under me and out of his reach he had to settle for a hand on my stomach.

"You, you fool."


End file.
